


This Is What Love Is

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Series: Ella!Verse [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baby!Fic, F/M, ella'verse, pregnancy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3541337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve tries to help Maria during her pregnancy, but it never seems to quite go to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morning Sickness Incident

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aries_taurus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aries_taurus/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic for the wonderful and amazing Miss AT. Darling, I'm always honoured when you want to play with these characters.

It’s like the minute Steve and Maria get confirmation she’s pregnant, the minute they accept that they not only made a human being but will welcome her into the world in nine months, the symptoms hit Maria with a vengeance.

Specifically, morning sickness.

It starts that first night, in the early hours after they’ve gone to bed. Maria startles awake with the nausea, just barely manages not to run into both the night table and the wall as dizziness follows close on nausea’s heels. She makes it just in time, the wonderful celebratory dinner Steve had slaved over now ruined.

She’s panting when her stomach finally stops convulsing and sighs as she rests her head against the cool porcelain of the toilet. She closes her eyes, irrationally grateful Steve’s slept through the whole thing.

Or so she’d thought.

“Maria?”

She waves a hand behind her to shoo him back to bed. It’s not like he can do anything for her anyway. She sleeps with her hair in a ponytail and she feels better already, and-

She gasps when his hand brushes against her back, her body convulsing again and sending her into a fit of very uncomfortable dry heaves. She groans when they finally subside.

“Maria?”

Her eyes flutter. “Fine. Fine. Go to bed.”

“No.”

She groans. How does she explain it won’t do either of them any good? She’s always been sensitive after throwing up, always reacted so violently – which is why she’s so very, very careful about not getting the flu – and she’s not sure she can handle another spell of dry heaves. She’s really quite happy here, really.

“One of us should sleep,” she tries, managing to lift her head. She has to reassure him. It won’t take long, she thinks. Maybe five minutes. Then she can go back to the glorious coolness of the toilet and the tiles while her body recovers.

“I’ll carry you,” he says. “You can’t sleep here. You’re pregnant.”

She scrambles away from his hands out of reflex until the ensuing dizziness sends her diving for the toilet again.

Seriously. She can’t keep doing this.

“Steve,” she groans. “Really. Please.”

“Maria.”

She hears it. She’s not deaf to the agony in his voice but she doesn’t have the energy or the strength to reassure him like she should. She forces herself to breath to shove down the nausea so she can bloody think for a minute.

He needs something to do.

“Get my tablet,” she says.

“You can’t work, you’re-“

“Research,” she contradicts. “Morning sickness.”

“What?”

She breathes again, counts to five before she releases it. The nausea recedes just enough. “It’s morning sickness,” she manages to say, a little bit clearer. “Get my tablet. Find me something that’ll make it stop.”

She hears him scramble away and finally, _finally_ relaxes, settling against the gloriously cold bathroom tile.

“Maria?”

She hums, but keeps her eyes closed. As long as she doesn’t move, she thinks, maybe the nausea will stay away. She feels the heat of his hand inches from hers, knows he’s yearning to touch, to comfort.

“Not you,” she murmurs as she tries to reassure him. “I’ve always been like this when I’m sick.”

“Sensitive?”

She hums her agreement, wants to tell him stories of nasty hangovers during her West Point days, but the nausea hits the minute she opens her mouth. She snaps it shut and grits her teeth until it passes.

“Crackers,” she hears Steve say. “Crackers are supposed to help.”

She considers that. “Nope,” she says when her body violently rejects even the thought.

“Brush your teeth after eating. Eating small frequent meals. Do you think the bedroom is too stuffy? I’ll open the window. According to this site that might be it.”

She lets him go, hears him murmuring to himself as he walks out of the bathroom. It makes her smile as she waits, rests and hopes this won’t haunt her for the next nine months. 


	2. The Decaf Coffee Incident

There are plenty of things that he expects to blow up in his face while his wife is pregnant. He’s generally been pretty good about keeping his mouth shut about the whole thing. He hasn’t once harassed her about how early she goes to work, how she still seems to think she has to work the long hours, still hits the gym with Natasha. He hasn’t bothered her about how much she eats – so very, very little – nor the sleeping pattern she still hasn’t developed.

He doesn’t expect coffee to be the final straw.

It starts the same way it always does. Her alarm goes off and the nausea rises with it. He sighs as he pulls himself from the bed, finds himself wishing she’d just keep the crackers in the night table. He sets the coffee while he’s at it, finds his hands shaking.

(He’d swapped it out is the thing. He’d read during the ridiculous amount of research he’s been doing on pregnancy in the twenty-first century – and God, is he ever glad they’re having a baby now rather than seventy years ago, not that medicine was bad but they’ve come a long way – that caffeine isn’t so great for pregnant women. And okay, maybe he’d freaked out a bit when ‘miscarriage’ had been mentioned, followed quickly by the risk of a low birth weight and health risks he needs to do everything to prevent but he just… He doesn’t want anything to happen. He doesn’t want to risk her regretting this choice. Or worse.)

He takes the crackers back to her while the coffee percolates, tugs her against him while she tries to settle her stomach. His hand goes to her abdomen, strokes in the way he’s made a habit. (She insists he can’t feel anything, that there’s no swelling he maintains is there, but he’s the one that’s catalogued every inch of her body, that knows it much better than he knows his own and there is most definitely a swell where their daughter is growing.)

When her stomach has settled, she heads for the shower. He rises with her, makes his way to the kitchen and her percolated coffee. He fixes her first cup just the way she likes and leaves it on the bathroom counter. He’s just dropping mixed berries on her plate – they’ve compromised on breakfast with a piece of peanut butter toast and fruit rather than straight coffee – when she shows up in the bedroom door, towel wrapped around her body and eyes like ice.

“Steven Grant Rogers.”

His spine straightens in reflex, his shoulders pushing back as he faces her. And tries very hard to remember she is terrifying like this and not stunning.

“What the hell is this?” She brandishes the mug, sloshes the coffee just a little. “Because it sure as hell isn’t coffee.”

“Language,” he scolds half-heartedly.

“She doesn’t even have ears,” Maria snaps. “Coffee, Steve. Real coffee.”

He bites his cheek against the surge of irritation that rises in him. “No.”

“Steve.”

He sets his jaw, knows she can see it from the bedroom door. He’s going to be stubborn on this, he’s decided. He has to be. Because God, the last thing he wants her to do is lose the baby now that she’s decided to keep her. “No.”

She growls, loud and long. “What the hell?”

“Language.”

“I don’t care about my damn language, Steve. I care about my coffee.”

His shoulders droop. “More than our daughter?”

She looks stricken. “How dare you.”

“How dare I?” he growls at her. “Do you have any idea what caffeine can do to a fetus?”

He watches the fight drain out of her, something like sympathy sliding over her face instead. “Have you been doing research?”

“Of course I have,” he snaps, finding himself rearranging her plate for the fourth time. “You almost-“ He can’t even say it, can’t give voice to those hours she didn’t want their daughter.

He hears her sigh, hates that he hadn’t heard her stepping closer. He flinches when she reaches out for his arm, brushes her thumb over his bicep. “Steve.”

And he reaches for her, even though he’s upset, even though this is not a discussion he wants to have or has ever wanted to have with her.

“Is that why Pepper’s cleared the cupboards at Stark?”

“She cares,” he defends immediately.

“Of course she cares,” Maria says on a sigh. “Steve. Some caffeine is okay.”

“Miscarriage,” he snaps. “Low birth weight. _Health risks_.”

Of course, he watches the understanding take over her face. He’s never verbalized how he feels about their daughter inheriting his health problems, the sheer number of things that could go wrong, the number of hospital rooms and late nights they could have. But his medical history isn’t exactly a secret either and she’s most definitely not stupid enough to miss the connection.

“Steve. Do you honestly think I’d do anything to hurt her?”

“No,” he answers immediately, because he knows it’s true. The fierceness of a mother’s love is buried in the back of her eyes every second of every day, a sort of calmness he doesn’t think she realizes she carries with her. She would never deliberately do a thing to harm their daughter.

Inadvertently, however…

“I’m careful. I’m being careful. A little bit of caffeine is fine. One cup. Here at home. Then decaf.” She leans in, like she knows he can’t resist her – and he can’t, even when she doesn’t even try – presses her cheek against his. His hands fall to her hips, one slipping through to stroke against her stomach. He nuzzles, even though he knows she hates it.

“Maria-“

“Trust me,” she implores. “God, Steve, one cup of coffee. All I want is one bloody cup of coffee.”

“It’s a risk.”

“Everything’s a risk.”

He drops his head.

She almost growls. “I’ll make you a deal,” she finally says, heads to the living room table where she’d left her phone. She’s dialing before he can ask.

“Banner.”

“Bruce.”

“Agent Hill.”

She rolls her eyes. She’s been trying to correct him for months. “We need a medical opinion.”

Bruce’s sigh comes through the phone. “You know I am not a qualified OB?”

Oh, they’ve been putting that off too, but Steve’s been so reluctant to push Maria given her initial reaction to the baby that he thinks they’re a bit entitled. And Maria waves it away, even though Bruce can’t see.

“Pregnancy and caffeine,” she says, short and to the point.

Bruce sighs. “Current recommended intake is no more than 300g. One cup of coffee, or three mugs of tea.”

She’s smug, he can feel it, but he keeps his vague irritation to himself.

“Thanks, Bruce.”

“Next time, call an OB.”

They both hear the warning, the push, the pressure. She sighs. He doesn’t tell her he has a list he’s having Natasha check out.  Then she’s turning back to him, an eyebrow raised.

“Coffee, Captain,” she says. “Real coffee.”

Steve drops his head with a sigh. “I don’t like it.”

“Your resistance is noted.”

“Don’t,” he says harshly, even as he dumps the carafe and pulls out the Tupperware of real coffee. “Don’t make me sound like some overreacting idiot.”

“You’re being irrational.”

“I give a damn,” he snaps, feeling the irritation rise in him now. “I want to give her every chance of coming out of there in one piece without health hazards. God, Maria, you didn’t even want her. I don’t want you to lose her and regret the whole thing.”

She’s silent while he throws out the filter, while he fills it with real coffee again and presses the button to brew. He hears her sigh, feels her palm against his back.

“I don’t regret my decision,” she says, with a strength and conviction he’s only ever seen in the back of her gaze. “Steve, I-“

He knows her throat closes up. He can see the way she tries to swallow around the emotion. And all of those maternal feelings well in her eyes, fill his chest.

“She’s not even here and I don’t regret her,” he hears her say. “I can’t spar with Natasha-“

“But you do.”

This time, it’s a laugh that rumbles in the back of her throat. “I don’t. She found some low impact exercises. Things that’ll keep me active and won’t hurt the baby.”

Steve blinks.

“I nap,” she admits ruefully. “Whenever it sneaks up on me.” She shakes her head. “You know, the minute you told Pepper about the baby, she had new furniture brought in? I have a chaise lounge in my office, Steve.”

“You still won’t eat breakfast.”

She bangs her head against the back of his shoulder. “I can’t eat breakfast. You know that.”

“You need to eat-“

“I have nuts at work. Nuts and fruit.” She sighs. “I’ve done the reading too. I’ve been paying attention. I’m doing everything I can to not lose this baby. I-“

He sighs because he feels the way she tenses. He turns to find her eyes shining, sparkling. He wraps his arms around her. “You want her.”

She laughs into his throat. “God, Steve.”

He knows the feeling, he thinks. She’s not even here yet and he knows without a doubt he’s in love with his daughter. So, so in love. His girls. So he presses his hand against her abdomen again, tugs her in close and tight.

“Maria.”

Her head presses against his shoulder and he feels her fingers dig into his waist. He holds her close and tight, too aware of how terrible she can be about handling overwhelming emotion. So he holds her tight, hard around her shoulders, and feels the way her body gives.

“I need you to trust me,” she says quietly. “One cup of real coffee here, then decaf at work.”

He doesn’t like it, they both know it.

“Steve.”

“Okay,” he finally says, because he most certainly has no idea what else to do. She’s stubborn on a good day, and she is, to a degree, very right. He has to trust her. He has to believe that she’ll take care of herself, that she’ll take care of her daughter.

“Okay,” he finally says, kissing her temple. “Okay. One cup.”

She turns her head, presses a gentle kiss to his lips. He turns it deeper, a little more desperate. Emotional. She sighs when he pulls back.

“I wish we had time. And that I had strength.”

He chuckles, then turns her around. “Get dressed.”

He rolls his eyes when she shoots him a look. “Real coffee. Like I promised.”

“Good,” she says on a sigh. “I get enough lecturing about taking care of myself from Pepper and Henry. I don’t need it from you too.”

“They’re only trying to help,” he calls after her as he pulls down the Tupperware container he’d used to store the real coffee.

“Just get me my coffee, Rogers.”

And despite the upheaval of the morning, he finds himself smiling.


	3. The Incidents of Overwhelming Hormones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Three times Maria’s Hormones Get the Better of Her and the One Time It’s Not a Bad Thing

**I. Anger**

Of course the first time her hormones get the better of her it would be in anger. Because she doesn’t already fulfill a million different stereotypes by having the worst case of morning sickness known to human kind.

Really she should know better. It’s been rising up in her all day, quick moments of temper. She snapped at Pepper for Pete’s sake before telling Henry to hold all of her calls and just barely managing to skirt the ball of tears that climbs her throat.

It is stupid. She’s knows it’s stupid, but she cannot get a handle on herself. And Maria Hill always has a handle on herself.

“Boss.”

“Out!”

She feels the apology immediately rise on her tongue as Henry hovers in the doorway. “Your husband’s here.”

But Steve’s already pushing through the door, worry in his eyes. “Hey. Listen, Pepper called me-“

“Oh my God, seriously?!”

Steve stops dead, right in the middle of her office.

“Pepper called you? Did I turn into an invalid somehow? Did I miss the part where pregnancy makes me stupid? Unable to do my job?”

She watches the mask fall over his face and the normal, rational part of her starts sounding alarm bells. The thing is, she can’t seem to push that part of her to the fore. She can’t seem to catch her anger, the temper that flares so quickly in her now. She’s not even the flaring type, dammit. She’s the cold ice type, the festering type, the I-will-get-you-back-and-you-won’t-even-know-it type.

“No.”

“Really? Because God, Steve, that’s sure as hell what this feels like. I’m pregnant, not insane.”

And then his eyebrow goes up, and she knows what that look means. “Then would you like to tell me what’s got you all worked up?”

“Worked up? I am not worked up. I am justifiably upset by the fact that apparently this bloody kid means I have to be treated with kid gloves and tiptoed around like I’m going to explode!”

She doesn’t even realize she’s picked up her stapler until she’s pitched it at the wall. It’s close enough to Steve that he snags it mid-air, still calm and steady in the middle of her office.

“Want to try that again?”

Her shoulders slump and she drops into her chair with enough force that Steve actually moves, a little afraid the wheels are going to send her to the ground. But she’s steady, she’s normal. She can already feel the anger and temper leaking out of her.

“Shit.”

She hears Steve sigh, catches him settling her stapler back in its spot on her desk as he slips around the side. Then his hand is tangling in her hair, cupping her scalp the way she loves, soothing and grounding.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re pregnant.”

She growls. Actually growls, feels her mouth open to snap at him, but he scratches his nails lightly over her scalp, rubs at the base of it, and the anger drains out of her again.

“You’ve done the research,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” she murmurs, closes her eyes as he presses his thumb under her ear. She doesn’t even ache, but it makes her feel less like she’s coming apart at the seams.

“Mood swings. You know this.”

His voice is still that low, calm thing that makes it hard for the ire to rise in her again.

And yes, okay, she’s read about hormones. She’s read about mood swings. But she has never been prone to such things. PMS? Not her. She doesn’t even get cranky when she’s tired. Crankier, anyway. So yes, she’d brushed away all of the research on mood swings because she figured it really wouldn’t be an issue.

“Why don’t you call it early,” Steve suggests quietly, his fingers still massaging her scalp. “Bring the paperwork home, you can do your conference calls from the couch.”

Her immediate reaction is to say no. No, there is no way these damn hormones – because there has to be some chemical explanation for why her legendary control does not work – are going to get the better of her. She opens her mouth to tell him just that.

“Okay.”

He blinks at her. She’s just as surprised, really, but then he’s reaching past her, gathering the files, her tablet. She takes the hand he holds out to her, lets him pull her into his side for a moment just to breathe.

“I hate being pregnant.”

She completely misses the utter devastation that crosses his face.

* * *

 

**II. Tears**

The stupid – or hilarious, she’s still trying to decide – thing about the first time her hormones turn her into a blubbering mess, Steve isn’t even there.

She’s in her office with Barnes and the Fitz half of Coulson’s epic science team – there’s dissention in the ranks there. She’s not quite sure what, but the way Fitz seems infinitely more comfortable in his own skin sends off a strange sort of alarm – as they lay out a mission in India and everything seems to be going well.

Seems to be. Because one second she’s debating whether or not Barnes needs backup – “Fitz, he’s an internationally known assassin with more kills than Romanoff, he’s going to be fine” – and the next, with a careless flick of her wrist, she’d knocked her coffee over. And she bursts into tears.

Actually sobbing, totally out of control tears.

She does not remember the last time she cried, and here she is, soaking Barnes’ t-shirt because she accidentally spilled her coffee.

“Boss, come on. You know how I feel about tears.”

She opens her mouth to tell him this isn’t rational, it’s not like crying’s her thing, but she can’t seem to settle herself long enough to get even a word out, let alone a coherent sentence. She feels it like a spiral, the frustration of arguing with Fitz, the damn mission, Barnes, the fact that her hormones are making her cry and how frustrated she is her hormones are making her cry…

“-Call Captain America-“

“Don’t.”

She feels Barnes sag from where he’s supporting her, his flesh arm still awkwardly around her shoulders. She owes him for this. Big.

“Boss, come on. It’s just coffee.”

She shakes her head against his shoulder, unable to explain. She knows it has nothing to do with the coffee. Hell, it has nothing to do with, well, anything and that’s the hard part. How does she, a woman who is perpetually in control, with absolutely no exceptions, explain this insane outburst of emotion?

“You sure we can’t call Steve?”

“I’m fine,” she grits out, forces herself to breathe and count to three. “Fine.”

“Okay.” Barnes doesn’t sound convinced, but Maria’s glad he does know better. “Look. Is there a conference room or something?”

“Of course.”

When had Henry come in?

“We’ll do that, okay Boss? No spilled coffee in the conference room.”

She elbows him, half out of habit, half out of the frustration that’s bubbling up mixing with the natural irritation at the way he makes fun of her. The puff of his breath gusts past her ear.

“Okay, okay. Too soon.”

(They move into the conference room without a hitch, finish planning the details of the mission and when she gets back, there’s a take out of her favourite coffee place on her desk, still steaming. She smiles despite herself, shakes her head.

 _And it’s even decaf_ , is the note attached in Steve’s scrawl.

It a fit of utter affection, she actually snaps a picture of her and her coffee and sends it his way.)

* * *

 

**III. Sensitivity**

She smells them from the end of the hall and everything goes sideways. Okay, dramatic, but she certainly stumbles a bit as things start to spin. She catches herself on the wall and just breathes.

She knows that scent intimately, knows what that scent means.

Roses for Date Night.

She wants to cry. She can feel the ball in her throat and curses her hormones for the eight millionth time.

“Seriously, Bumpy,” she says, rubbing circles on her stomach. It’s a habit she’s picked up, talking to the bump like she can hear – and she can, according to Steve and Dr. Whitley. “You couldn’t hate the smell of carnations?”

The sensitivity’s been driving her crazy for months. The scent of chocolate sends her running for a bathroom. Just last week, one of the shareholders had walked past her and his cologne had almost sent her to her knees. She can’t look at cheese without her stomach rolling. But it’s never been something that has thrown any sort of wrench into her life.

Until now.

Because, look, she actually _likes_ Date Night. She’s come to value this time that they both make a real effort to set aside. And it’s been so long since they’ve been able to set aside that time, so as much as her stomach’s rolled, she can feel the disappointment threading through the nausea.

The baby doesn’t seem to be even considering allowing her parents this time and Maria’s forced to pull her phone out, eyes closing.

“Hey you. You left?”

“End of the hall,” she says quietly. She sighs. “Did you get roses?”

There’s silence for a moment and she knows it’s meant to be a surprise. “I figured since neither of us has plans-“

“No. No Steve, it’s good. Just…” She swallows. “Baby doesn’t like roses.”

She hates it. _Hates it._ They have a system. Date Night always includes yellow roses, sometimes one, sometimes a dozen, but always a reminder of how he values her, what their friendship means as it hums beneath the romance and fierce love they’ve developed.

“Oh.”

He sounds surprisingly relieved and a smile curves her mouth despite herself. Despite the disappointment. She likes those roses. Likes what they represent, that her ridiculously romantic husband takes that tradition so seriously.

(So does she, not that she’d ever tell. She keeps one rose from each Date Night, dried and tucked carefully and secretly away in a box.)

“Can you…”

“I’ll get rid of them,” he says immediately. “Take them down to Ms. Holland on 3.”

She sighs. She doesn’t like it. In fact, she hates it. “Steve.”

“Hm?”

“Can you keep one?” She feels the ball of tears climbing her throat with the vulnerability that threads through her voice. Damn hormones, ruining her roses and the beginning of a quality Date Night.

“Maria.”

“I know.” Her nausea has been unpredictable to say the least and really, she shouldn’t have the scent anywhere in the house. “Just. Keep one.”

She hears him sigh, but then their apartment door opens and he steps out, vase in hand. He sees her at the end of the hall, takes a step towards her before he remembers the roses. “Give me five minutes.”

She sighs and hits the end button, leans her head back against the wall as she waits. It’s his hand on her cheek that has her opening her eyes again.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

She laughs, because she knows otherwise she’ll cry. “Neither did I.” 

He tilts her chin up, kisses her. She breathes for a moment, but it’s not enough to keep the tear from leaking out. He hums in her ear, a sound that tends to settle both her and her daughter. Her hands fist in his shirt.

“You were doing something nice. And this ruined it.”

“Nothing’s ruined,” he argues, and she pretends he doesn’t sound desperate. He gets that tone in his voice sometimes, and she can never quite figure out why. Sometimes she thinks it’s because he’s afraid she’s made the wrong choice, like any wrong move with this pregnancy is either going to send her running or send her to a clinic.

As if that’s even a choice anymore.

But she’s tired and she’s hungry and she wants to sit down and give her head a chance to stop spinning. So she doesn’t have the time, the patience, the words to explain to him how fiercely she loves the troublemaker her body’s trying to keep safe and happy. Just an endless yearning to bloody well lie down.  

She hears him huff in her ear like he’s trying to steady himself, to breathe through whatever strange panic’s gripped him. “Why can’t she hate lilies?”

Maria snorts a laugh. “I asked her the same thing.”

He laughs then too, a bit of a strained sound, but a laugh nonetheless. “Ready to go home?”

She straightens, tests. Steve waits patiently – it’s far from the first time they’ve gone through this routine – and wraps his hand around hers when she slips her hand down his arm.

“Home sounds amazing.”

* * *

 

**+I. Libido**

The good parts of her hormones don’t kick in until around Month Five.

It starts when she isn’t expecting it, a brush of his hand at her lower back as he passes her in the bathroom. Her nerves fire, her breath catches, and her mind immediately imagines him using that hand to palm her hip, to spin her around and-

“If you keep looking at me like that I’m going to drag you back into that shower.”

And that's the thing of it. She’s just had him in the shower. Twice. Yet here she is, feeling her body heat and all he’d done was brush her back. She closes her eyes, hand gripping her mascara. She tries to shove it all back because he’s right, they don’t have time. She has an office to get to and he and Barnes are doing some preliminary work for a mission Coulson’s considering…

His hand slides down her bicep, firm, like he does when he just wants the touch. A grounding for him. But arousal flares, sharp and hot, and her eyes pop open on a gasp.

“Seriously?”

“Shut up.”

But his eyes are sparkling, his grin is dirty, and it takes so very much of her willpower not to just turn into him, take his mouth, give him back some of what she’s feeling. She’s always been a fan of making him suffer with her, and with everything so close to the surface, humming under her skin, she definitely wants him riding that edge. It just seems unfair otherwise.

Except they have work, they both do. Important things and responsibilities.

She reminds herself three, four, five times as Steve shuffles about getting ready – she’s so focused on it she almost pokes herself in the eye with her mascara wand – but when she steps into the bathroom to find him tugging up his jeans, her breath catches and she finds herself reaching for the muscles she knows shift and play under the cotton of his tshirt.

She’s a sucker for this man in jeans.

“Maria.”

She swallows, tests her body by pressing flush against his back, slipping his palms around her his abs. Oh yes. Her body can handle this.

“We can be late once.”

(It’s more than once after that, everything hot and quick and sparking.

When she looks back at her life in the future, when a morning quickie becomes her favourite way to start the day, she always, always blames her daughter.)


	4. The 3AM Pancake Incident

“Steve.”

He groans. He’s just returned from a mission in South America, exhausted and bruised. It’s normal, and is generally healed with sleep, good food, the usual. He and Bucky had stopped at a diner not far from home to fill up and now he just really, really wants sleep.

Except there is the metaphorical problem of his pregnant wife.

“Steve.”

“Maria.”

“I want pancakes.”

He groans again. “Seriously?”

“I know, I know,” she says and to her credit she does sound incredibly apologetic. “But Steve. Pancakes.”

He can read between the lines of course and sighs as he tries to get his brain online. These moments don’t happen often, really. He expected it to, if he’s honest. He’s read about the cravings that come with pregnancy and he’d expected some seriously whacky combinations. But Maria’s actually been pretty good, plagued with nausea well into her second trimester rather than the cravings that can also come with a growing fetus.

And then there are moments like this.

When he manages to pry his eyes open, he finds her apologetic face looking back at him, a hand rubbing her belly. She says she can feel their daughter move now, a bit like butterfly wings. He’s looking forward to when she really starts kicking, when he’ll be able to feel it. In the meantime, it seems he has a job to do.

“Okay, okay,” he manages. “Pancakes.”

She sighs softly, gets up. It’s kind of a deal they’ve managed to work out. He’ll cook her anything she wants at three am, but she’s in charge of gathering ingredients. He waits her out, must fall asleep somewhere in the middle because he comes to with her hand on her shoulder.

“Steve.”

He groans. “Up. I’m up.”

It’s not that she can’t cook, he knows as he pours the flour, the baking soda, the milk into a bowl. She could probably make this recipe in her sleep, the number of times she’s watched him do this, but for all of her ability to use an oven, pancakes are something she can’t seem to get a handle on. And to be honest, he likes doing little things like this for her, even though he’d rather be curled up in bed.

He burns the first three because he’s asleep on his feet, exhausted and healing and still trying to provide for his wife. Maria watches him, guilt all over her face. But eventually, he puts three perfect pancakes on a plate in front of her, pulls out the syrup and whipped cream (because when Maria indulges, she doesn’t do it by halves) and kisses her temple.

“I’m going to bed.”

She gets her hand on his wrist, tugs him in for a more thorough kiss that feels like it could escalate if he had the brainpower. But he is zapped.

“Thank you,” she murmurs when she lets him go.

He hears the _I love you_ in it too.

He smacks another kiss to the side of her head then all but stumbles into the bedroom. He’s out half a second after he hits the mattress, deep enough asleep that he doesn’t even hear her come to bed. He wakes in the morning to a clean kitchen and the sweetest note from his wife. He sighs with a smile, thinks for the hundredth time he really doesn’t actually care how many times Maria wakes him up for 3am cravings.

Everything is worth it for their daughter.


	5. Chapter 5

She finds the first note on the shower mirror.

**Don’t forget to take your vitamin.**

She legitimately blinks at it for a moment, a bright yellow sticky above her prenatal vitamin bottle, a single pill already on the counter. Like she’s incapable.

_That’s not it, Hill. Slow your roll._

She doesn’t have enough fingers or toes to count the times she’s had to repeat that to herself since they found out she’s pregnant. Mood swings have plagued her along with morning sickness and she’s managed to generally be able to identify when she’s getting out of hand.

It’s the mantra she repeats to herself as she swallows the pill, as she climbs into the shower. And then climbs back in again when she realizes she’s forgotten to wash the conditioner out. Her eyes catch the sticky note and she sighs.

Pregnancy brain.

Honestly, she’d thought it was a myth. She’d anticipated that her natural anal retentiveness would mean she would be less susceptible to it, that it wouldn’t really get to her. And she’d been wrong. Just yesterday she’d left her tablet at home; last week completely forgotten she’d promised to meet Pepper for lunch until the redhead had called to remind her.

She is the most ridiculously organized person at Stark Industries, more organized than Pepper herself, and she’s been a mess. She’s been leaving herself stickies for two weeks now, scattered around her desk and her computer screen. Henry’d merely raised an eyebrow and asked if maybe she wanted him to add extra reminders to her calendar. She’d glared until he’d retreated from her office a smug grin dancing at the corner of her mouth.

(She’d almost missed a shareholder meeting, tied up with Barton in the Ukraine and her duo of Russian assassins in the Sudan before the damn alert had pinged on her computer and she’d scrambled to remember everything. Only to realize she’d forgotten the file with her presentation notes.

Henry had handed it to her wordlessly half way to the boardroom.

She’d called Pepper and asked her to double his bonus.)

She sighs as she pours her coffee, almost sloshes it over the edge as the sticky note on the fridge catches her eye.

**Don’t forget your lunch.**

A growl grows in the back of her throat. It’s maybe a little irrational – and she is _not_ going to blame that irrationality on hormones, she just isn’t – but she has half a mind to call him.

(She could do it under the guise of his 4am call that had him on a Stark jet before the sun rose. Hypocritical, maybe, but even after years together she still has a thing about calling him for no reason.

Even if she fabricates a lot of those ‘reasons’. Not that anyone knows, and those who suspect are too terrified to say a damn thing.)

She is an adult, she reminds herself, even as she moves the sticky to the door. There’s another one there too, this one a simple **I miss you** in scrawl she doesn’t find beautiful and God, these emotions have her turning into a ridiculous sap.

(It does what it’s supposed to. While she leaves the note about her lunch behind, even she can admit the irritation’s leveled off.)

She savours her cup of coffee as she putters around the apartment, stows some of his art supplies in the corner, gathers her papers on the coffee table into a neat pile. And that’s where she finds the next sticky, attached to one of her files.

**Take me!**

There’s a sound in her throat that is both irritation and amusement. He’s going overboard she thinks, even as she packs the folder in her satchel. She leaves her mug in the sink and, morning routine complete, heads into work.

(She has to double back to the fridge for her lunch, the stupid, adorable, thoughtful man. There’s never a guarantee she’ll eat it but he tries when he can. He likes to call her his guinea pig now that they’re trying to figure out what the baby will eat.)

Once she settles into her desk, she figures she’s safe. She has her own list of stickies scattered about and Henry’s started leaving them on the reports he returns to her. He knows that she keeps track of things, that at the very least she’s admitted to herself that pregnancy brain is a thing and has taken steps to keep herself from doing absolutely ridiculous things.

Except that’s not, at all, how her day goes.

She has no idea how he’s done it, but she finds them all over the place. In the kitchen, on a new bag of the trail mix she snacks on – she’d been low, but she would have remembered to ask Henry to order more – and on her desk – where he reminds her he’d promised some information to Bruce about the Diviners Coulson’s been raving about. She finds them in her day planner, even alerts in her computer that remind her to nap, to drink, to snack.

So by the end of the day, she’s feeling homicidal.

And that’s an understatement.

The apartment is dark when she gets home. It’s not unique, especially after missions – this one to Florida, in and out, but the news had talked about an explosion and a collapsed building, so she figures he’s sleeping it off – but she can’t say she tries very hard to be quiet.

She’s pissed.

“Oh, you’re home.”

And before she can even think about it, she’s plowed her fist into his solar plexus. He goes down with an oomph, startled and off-guard.

“What the hell?”

“I am pregnant, not an idiot,” she snaps, hands on her hips. Bumpy’s moving around in there, flipping and churning with her mother’s anger. She takes a moment to rub absently at the baby, soothing.

(When she looks back on her pregnancy, when the baby is a real human, breathing thing with a name – Ella. She likes Ella – she’ll look back and remember that moment, where she’d reached for her daughter out of instinct, even before she was a screaming, writhing, breathing human.

It’s how she knows she can do this, she can be a mother. Her instincts had told her so.

And she’s always listened to her instincts.)

“And that required physical abuse?”

“A reminder that I’m not some wilting flower that needs a sticky note every five minutes.”

Awareness and apology flood his face immediately – and no, the shade of red he turns isn’t adorable, it’s a pain in the ass because he _knows better_.

“I wasn’t here,” he murmurs, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s the first time I’ve been away.”

It crashes down on her then and her shoulders sag. This ridiculous man.

He’s always been a bit strange about his protective instincts. It’s her fault, she knows, because she’s pretty strange about them too. There are times where she loves them, needs them, when she’s falling apart and the only thing keeping her together is the way his arms squeeze just right. Then there are times like this, where his need to be there, his inability to adjust while he’s away, just pisses her right off.

“Do you think I can’t take care of myself?” she asks him point blank. “Do you think I can’t take care of us?”

“No,” he says immediately, eyes wide. “Maria, no.”

“No.” She sighs. “Steve, you reminded me to drink decaf.”

He winces. It’s still a bone of contention, her caffeine intake, but Maria is stubborn.

“We talked about this,” she says, softening because she can’t help herself. Logically, she understands. She gets it. He wants to be here, be beside her, every step of the way (and part of that is on her, her independence and the fact that this wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place. She doesn’t know how to explain to him that she wouldn’t change it, that somewhere along the way this baby became amazing and wonderful and _everything_ ).

The thing is he can’t and God, they’ve fought about it. Tooth and nail and everything in between. He cannot be there all the time and sometimes she won’t tell him when she’s had a bad day, when everything’s a mess, when she loses her temper in the office or spends a good two hours at the shooting range when he’s gone, to work off the steam he can usually sooth.

She can do this, with or without him.

(The fact that she doesn’t want to do this without him is something else, something she makes perfectly clear. But they’re different, the fact that she can and the fact that she’s choosing not to.)

She lets him take her hand when he reaches for her, doesn’t shove him away when his palm spreads over her growing stomach. His face is earnest, honest, and yes a bit like she kicked a damn puppy. She rests her head on his shoulder, her arm coming up around his waist. “I’m still mad at you.”

He sighs.

“No more sticky notes,” she murmurs into his shoulder. “I have no idea how you even did it.”

“Henry,” he admits. “It’s not his fault-“

“He’d move heaven and earth if you asked. The traitor.”

Steve laughs. She does too.

“Promise me,” she says after a moment. “No more.”

He kisses her head, tips her chin so he can get to her mouth. “No more sticky notes.”

(He never did say anything about text messages.)


	6. Chapter 6

Steve has always taken Date Night seriously. At first, it had been intimidating, but Maria’s come to value this time set aside for just the two of them with the same ferocity as she loves the man. So when the tulips show up on her desk – historically, it’s been yellow roses, but the scent’s been making her queasy – she lets a small smile grace her face. It’s been too long since they’ve actually gone out as a couple.

_Le Bernadin. 7pm._

She fingers the card, absorbs the warmth that always accompanies these little expressions of his easy adoration. It squeezes her heart and has a lump rising in her throat. Damn hormones.

“Hey Boss?”

She forces herself to steady before she looks up at Henry, hopes with a strange sort of desperation she’s managed to smooth her mask over her face. Henry’s been with her forever, has seen her at her best and worst, most injured and most vicious, but she thinks she’d rather he see her bleeding out on the floor than witness the way her husband and his attachment to traditional romance makes her and her hormones go haywire.

“Henry.”

He’s carrying a dress bag, his mouth twitching. “Steve dropped this off for you.”

“Steve?”

They have strict codes of respect that have been passed down through SHIELD and it hasn’t historically included Henry on a first name basis with her husband. Hell, even Maria calls him ‘Captain’, often out of habit.

He sends her a baleful look. “There’s only so many times Captain America can insist you call him by his first name before you feel unpatriotic about not giving in.”

Maria rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

Meanwhile, Henry hooks the dress bag on the back of her door. “For tonight,” he says. “I’ve programmed the alerts into your phone and computer, and informed JARVIS.”

She groans, even as a sense of gratefulness invades.  She knows she will never live down The Scatterbrain Incident. There’s nothing she hates more than not being in control, and pregnancy brain, which has haunted her since the beginning, makes her feel like the most disorganized security director on the planet.

And yet, exactly as both Steve and Henry had predicted, Maria forgets entirely about Date Night. She’s knee deep in a report from Barton and Natasha in Africa – and valiantly ignoring the fact that Barnes has hacked into the call, the idiot – when everything in her office starts beeping.

“Shit.”

“Hill?”

She tries to sigh, but it comes out a bit like a hysterical laugh. “Stand down. It’s Steve. We have a date.”

Barton wolf-whistles while Maria rolls her eyes.

“Send me your written in twelve hours. I so much as sniff you’re leaving something out and I’ll get Tony to reprogram your alarm clocks.”

Barton sends her a dark look – Natasha’s face looks like it’s trying very hard not to look smug – just as Henry pokes his head in. She flicks her wrist, both in dismissal and acknowledgement.

“Thirty minutes, Boss. He’s sending a car.”

Her eyebrow rises. He’s going all out if he’s ordered a car. A celebration. Her hand settles on the curve of their daughter, their miracle, and she smiles. Then she grabs the garment bag and heads into the bathroom.

She unzips the bag with a touch of reverence. The bodice is a soft grey, a sweetheart neckline and strapless, to her surprise. The skirt is gauzy, as she tends to prefer. Her hand brushes the skirt as she smiles. God, her husband and this baby are turning her into a giant ball of mush.

She takes her time getting ready, slipping into the dress and fixing her hair, her makeup. She smiles at her reflection as she finishes, catches sight of him in the mirror.

“Stunning.”

Those blue eyes are so dark, so expressive and she finds her body responding in earnest.

“Stop,” she says quietly. “You know this damn baby’s got everything out of whack.”

“Language,” he scolds gently, has ever since he found out the baby could identify her voice. And his, which is a memory she will never, ever forget.

His hands slide around her hips, splay over the bump. The baby kicks at his hand and he chuckles against the bare skin of her shoulder. “Hello to you too, sweetheart. Were you good for Mommy today?”

“Don’t start.” But there’s no heat in her rebuke. He’s made a habit of talking to her bump ever since he’d caught her doing the same during one of her sleepless nights.

“Too late.” He smacks a kiss to her cheek, giddy and playful. She barks out a laugh.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m celebrating,” he answers as he takes her mouth in a thorough kiss. “Let’s go, Mrs. Rogers.”

She glares even as she lets him lead her down to the car. The ride is difficult to say the least. She blames Steve, who enjoys taking advantage of the ways she can’t seem to resist him. He knows what his touch does to her, how it heats her from the inside out, sends her nerves skittering. His eyes glint in the flash of the streetlights and she huffs.

“Stop. It’s our first Date Night out and my hormones are about to ruin it,” she tells him, stalling his questing fingers by weaving them between her own.

It’s important to her, both because Date Night is important and because she has refused to let this pregnancy take any more of her freedom than it has to. Now that the majority of the morning sickness has passed and she’s not surgically attached to a bathroom, she is going to do everything she can while she can. And that includes dinner at a gorgeous restaurant.

They’re seated quickly, efficiently. It’s her nose that twitches first, like there’s something not quite right, but she ignores it. She is going to ignore it, because she will not get sick and ruin this night. She’s been looking forward to this time with her husband since the tulips and _nothing_ is going to ruin it for her.

Until a waiter with an armful of food walks by.

She’s not even totally sure what sends her off. All she knows is that waiter walks past, the scent hits her nose and her stomach rolls over. Her breath catches, holds as she tries to breathe through the nausea.

“Maria?”

She doesn’t remember reaching out, gripping his wrist, but the next moment he’s tugged her from her chair and out into the air. She gulps it in, fights with the nausea and leans her forehead on his shoulder trying not to swear. And cry, apparently.

She looks up when she’s got a hold on herself, when she hears the low rumble in her ear where it’s pressed to his chest. He’s on the phone, his broad hand rubbing her back absently.

“Steve. What are you doing?”

“Calling the car.”

“Steve.”

There’s disappointment in his face when he looks down, mixed with worry. “The restaurant made you sick.”

“I’m fine,” she says on a sigh, even though she’s disappointed too. They’re not going back in there, she knows that. “Something set me off. Like the roses. I’m fine.”

“We shouldn’t have tried something new. You’ve been so sensitive, and then all the morning sickness-“

“Steve.”

He huffs. “I wanted to do something nice.”

“You did,” she says, strong and sure. “It’s Date Night.”

His hand comes up to cup her neck. “We’ll get takeout at home.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were almost sick-“

She steps back just a little, straightens her spine. “So find another restaurant. I’m wearing a really nice dress and I’m not going to waste it because Peanut in here doesn’t like French food.”

His eyes spark, heat the way they always do when she takes control. The way it does when she refers so passively to the personality of their unborn daughter.

“A restaurant, Captain,” she repeats, nodding to his phone as the car pulls around. “Now.”

They end up at their favourite Italian place where they’re both ridiculously over-dressed, but Maria’s stomach doesn’t revolt and she takes great pleasure in demolishing a plate of lasagna. It may not be Steve’s originally imagined glamourous night out, but Maria thinks it’s much more them.


	7. Chapter 7

He gets the email on a surveillance op in the Caribbean.

Honestly, he’s grateful for it. Bucky’s done nothing but gripe about the humidity for hours now – and Steve, excellent friend he is, has so far refrained from pointing out that this humid Central American climate is exactly where Bucky’d taken refuge before finally coming home – and he’s so very glad for the distraction.

The first is a picture, grainy twice over because it’s a StarkPhone picture of the ultrasound screen. His breath catches in his chest, his fingers reaching out reverently. He wants a bigger screen, he thinks, wants to see her fingers and toes and arms and legs and all of the little pieces that make up his daughter.

(This isn’t the first appointment she’s had to go to herself, and it won’t be the last. He’s trying to deal with that after the Sticky Incident.)

“Stevie, what the hell?”

He finds himself sniffing, wiping at his nose absently.

His daughter.

“It’s from Maria.”

“Tell me it’s the retreat order. My arm is going to rust.”

It’s an argument he’s had with Bucky a million times – “If my shield doesn’t rust in ice there’s no way a bit of water is going to do any damage to your arm.” “It’s already squeaking. It’s meant for battle not lounging around poolside.” – but this time, Steve ignores him.

“It’s the baby.”

Bucky goes completely still.

(Steve knows. He’s not stupid. He and JARVIS have an agreement and Steve is well aware there have been a number of evenings since they announced Maria’s pregnancy that Bucky’s stood vigil outside their apartment, outside her office. He’s pretty sure his wife knows too, that she’s being followed and protected by a former assassin.

Since she hasn’t said anything, he figures he wouldn’t either.)

“Is she okay?”

There’s something in Bucky’s voice that makes Steve pause, his thumb over the mp4 file she’s attached. Bucky’s face is blank and stone and it takes Steve a minute.

“No. Buck no. She’s still-“ He laughs a little awkwardly, then flips the phone around. “It’s just the ultrasound.”

The blankness fades in the face of relief – he’s been trying on emotion, Bucky, still figuring out some of the details now that he’s allowed to feel like a human. He’s got anger down, and tenderness to everyone’s surprise, but some of the more vulnerable ones like relief, disappointment and hurt are still sketchy – and he leans in to see the screen.

“That’s a baby?”

“According to the doctors,” Steve says, taking the phone back. “A perfectly healthy baby.”

“It’s weird.”

Steve laughs, presses the downloaded mp4 file.

And it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

It’s Maria, of course. It must be from the way the camera shakes. He can see the ultrasound screen, the way the baby moves and twitches. It’s strange, but not near as strange as actually feeling their daughter kick against his palm.

“Okay, we’re going to flip on the sound here.”

It takes him less than a blink to realize what’s going on, and his breath catches all over again as the whooshing starts.

“What the hell is that?” Bucky asks, frown on his face. “Did they put her under freaking water?”

Steve chokes on his laughter, feeling hysterical and just an absolute mess.

“Stevie.”

“It’s her heart,” Steve manages to choke out. “The whooshing. That’s her heartbeat, Buck. That’s my daughter’s heartbeat.”

His fingers shake as he flicks out of the video, pulls up his texts.

 _Did you record it?_ he types out.

 _Audio,_ she writes back immediately. Then, _That’s her, Daddy._

 _My girls_ , he writes, looks up to find Bucky with his phone pointed his way. The next thing he knows there’s another message from his wife.

_You giant sap. Get back to work._

(When he gets back he listens to the audio a hundred times and yes, he cries. It’s just beautiful, his wife and his daughter, one heartbeat strong and steady and solid in one ear and the other heartbeat fast and frantic as his daughter tries to grow.

He uploads the audio to his phone and when he’s away, when he feels like the world’s falling apart, he pulls up that audio, listens to his daughter’s whooshing heartbeat.

His crying face becomes her background.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! Happy Birthday Miss Cat. I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> (The rest of you too of course, you ridiculously amazing human beings.)


End file.
